Death of a Robber Baron (4 page)

C
HAPTER
5

 

A
t noon, six days later, as Prescott approached a police station in the city's west side Tenderloin district, Pamela's bruised face was still on his mind. He had investigated Dennis Reilly's past, especially his years in prison. The results had led Prescott to Inspector Alexander “Clubber” Williams, NYPD, apparently Reilly's mentor and protector.

For many years Williams had ruled over the district's notorious brothels and saloons and broken up its murderous gangs. He was reputed to be a stern, fearless enemy of criminals and claimed to have a keen understanding of the criminal mind. His nickname came from beating confessions out of suspects who he believed were guilty of a crime or were withholding vital information about it.

From prison records, Prescott had learned that Williams had arranged Reilly's release into his custody. For what reason? Prescott asked himself. Williams must have found some use for him.

While in prison, Reilly had given up drinking, learned useful skills, and been well behaved and cooperative. Prescott suspected that the prisoner had also won favor by spying for the warden and other officers. Perhaps Williams wanted Reilly to spy for him and had even invested money and trust in him. Reilly's recent assault on Pamela could prove embarrassing.

Williams was leaving the station and seemed to be in a hurry. When he saw Prescott, he frowned. “What brings you to the Tenderloin, Prescott? Looking for clients in our stewpots of vice? I might recommend a few rascals you could defend.” His eyes were dark, deep-set, and hostile.

Prescott ignored Williams's sarcastic tone. “No, thank you, Inspector. I already have a client who needs my full attention, and her case brings me to you.”

The two men knew each other from various court cases, usually as adversaries. Representing lowlife characters accused of serious crimes, Prescott publicly condemned Williams's brutal interrogations. Williams took personal offense at the criticism and had retaliated with attacks on Prescott's alleged loose morals. Williams also charged that Prescott's clever arguments undermined the judicial system and enabled vicious criminals to go free.

Prescott intensely disliked Williams. Still, he asked him politely, “Inspector, may I have a word with you privately?”

Williams stared at Prescott. “You want to speak to me now? I'm on my way to lunch with the boys at Finnegan's Bar. Come along and join us.”

Prescott doubted that the invitation was seriously meant. And if it were, it would be like inviting Daniel into the lions' den. “Thanks, some other time. This is serious police business.”

Williams looked askance. “Why can't we deal with it later in my office? Make an appointment.”

“The matter is urgent. My client's life is in danger. It's to your advantage to deal with her problem here and now.” Williams's office was a mare's nest of spies, journalists, and other untrustworthy characters.

For a brief moment, Williams's eyes searched Prescott, trying to detect any hidden or malicious motives. They both were aware of mounting public criticism of high-handed tactics and corruption in the NYPD. Over the course of twenty-three years, Williams had grown rich through bribes and extortion in the Tenderloin district and had acquired a fine house and a yacht on a policeman's meager salary. Reformers in the state legislature would soon launch an official investigation into his affairs and try to drive him and his superior, Superintendent Thomas Byrnes, from office.

Finally, Williams said, “Follow me,” and led Prescott back into the police station. “Your business better be interesting. I'm putting off my lunch.”

As they faced each other across a table, the inspector's attention became intense. Somehow, he sensed that Prescott would touch on a sensitive spot.

“What's troubling you, Prescott?” he asked.

“Dennis Reilly,” replied Prescott. “Late Wednesday afternoon a week ago, he assaulted one of my clients, Mrs. Pamela Thompson.”

Williams's tone grew irritated. “Go tell your story to someone at the local precinct station.”

Prescott met Williams's eye and measured his words. “The local officers are powerless in this case. You, sir, have custody of Dennis Reilly. I've reason to believe that he also works for you. Order him to stay away from my client.”

Williams reacted with deliberate restraint. “It's no secret that Reilly is in my charge. Occasionally, he works for me. But, I would never condone his assaulting a respectable woman. There must be a misunderstanding. Reilly is in the hospital, recovering from several painful wounds. He says Mrs. Thompson attacked him unprovoked with a stiletto. There must have been a dispute. I suppose Reilly defended himself.” Williams glared at Prescott. “Why do
you
think he attacked her?”

“In revenge,” Prescott replied. “She testified against him in the brutal killing of his wife.”

“In fact,” Williams countered, “she exaggerated Reilly's part in the dispute. The court recognized that his wife had been lying to him and cheating him of his money. He was provoked, his wife actually assaulted him, and your client put her up to it. Granted, he reacted with more force than he should have.”

“Really?” Prescott remarked, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

Williams blinked, then blurted out, “Your client is an arrogant bitch. I can't stand the type. She took the daughter away from her father. Now that Reilly is out of prison, he wants his daughter back and will fight for her, if necessary. I say, good luck. Still, I'll have a word with him.”

Williams rose from the table. “Now, if you'll excuse me, I'll go to lunch before I lose my appetite.”

As Prescott left the station, he felt disappointed, even though he had had a low expectation of Williams cooperating. The inspector had not clearly promised to bring Reilly under control, much less to punish him for the assault. Reilly could still feel free to harass or intimidate, if not openly attack, his daughter, Brenda, and Pamela. They must be warned. The next time he would be more wary.

 

The following day, when Prescott arrived at the office, he found a message from Pamela. She had engaged a manager for her boardinghouse and, together with Brenda, had moved into decent furnished rooms on West Fourteenth Street, close to Macy's. He hastened to the address, a boardinghouse for women. A flint-eyed concierge scrutinized him, then showed him into a tiny parlor and fetched Pamela.

“I was about to go shopping at Macy's,” she said. “Is something amiss?”

“I'm not sure,” he replied. “But I should report what I learned at my meeting yesterday with Inspector Williams. While Dennis Reilly was in prison, he apparently won a measure of respect from the police. He works for them, most likely as an informer. I'm concerned that the police now seem to have largely accepted his version of the domestic conflict of six years ago. They believe you wronged him, and they support his desire to recover paternal rights over Miss Reilly.”

“That's troubling,” said Pamela. “How far will the police allow him to pursue us?”

“They have him on a leash. But I don't know how long it is or how tightly they hold it.”

She stroked her chin for a moment. “We feel safe in this house and in the neighborhood. Elsewhere, we'll be vigilant.”

C
HAPTER
6

 

A
t Macy's, Pamela looked for new clothes and shoes. Her taste as well as her new work called for simple dresses free from the excesses of current fashion, such as wasp waists. With an advance on her salary, she also visited a hairdresser and a masseuse. She was surprised by how much this indulgence lifted her spirits.

The next day, when she reported back to Prescott's office, her transformation brought a satisfied smile to his face. “You look like you belong in Macy's,” he said. “Now let's begin your apprenticeship.” Prescott handed her a thin book from his shelf,
A Handbook for Criminal Investigation
. “This is your bible. I've condensed into simple English the best writing on the subject, chiefly Hans Gross's massive two-volume work on criminology.”

She received the book with appropriate gravity, promising to quickly master its contents.

Prescott continued. “Now I'll introduce you to the other detective on my staff, Harry Miller, formerly of the NYPD. I should warn you, he can be difficult to work with. Life has dealt him many bad cards, leaving him soured. But I've hired him because he's the most skillful investigator in the city. He will tutor you in the basics of private investigation and determine your strengths and weaknesses. At the end, he'll report to me, and we'll discuss how best to employ you.”

Prescott rang a bell. Into the room shuffled Miller, a small man with thin, sandy hair and sly, searching eyes. He cast a penetrating, unsettling glance at Pamela, as if he thought she was poor material for detecting crime. His greeting to her was curt, almost rude. Instantly, she disliked him. He appeared cynical toward women. Still, she was willing to learn from him.

When Miller left the room, Prescott leaned back in his chair and stared at Pamela, as if he had something distressing to tell her. His words seemed carefully chosen. “You've noticed Harry's bitter attitude toward life in general and women in particular. So, I should explain what I meant by the ‘bad cards' in his life. You might understand him better.”

“I'm willing to meet him more than halfway,” she said. “In my work with the poor, I've often met men like him.”

Prescott explained that Harry was about forty years old, born into poverty. “His father was killed early in the war, and his mother became insane. He was raised in an orphanage. At eighteen, he joined the NYPD as a patrolman in the Five Points district, the most crime-ridden and dangerous in the city. He soon showed a talent for investigation. Bright, inquisitive, and fearless, he worked his way up to police detective.”

“That speaks well of his character,” Pamela remarked.

Prescott nodded. “Now comes the sad part. Several years ago, he was assigned to investigate a murder. It looked like a simple case. An unemployed worker had quarreled with a cab driver over a fare of a few cents. The cab driver pulled a knife. The worker drew his knife, killed the driver, and claimed self-defense. But when Harry looked closely into the circumstances, he discovered that the cab driver had previously chanced upon strong evidence of fraud involving Tammany Hall, the headquarters of the city's Democratic organization. One of their lawyers had accidentally left a portfolio of incriminating correspondence in the cab. The driver had recognized its significance and attempted to extort money from Tammany. The organization's leader had hired the worker to recover the portfolio and kill the driver in return for a well-paid job in the city's administration.

“When Harry presented this evidence to his supervisor, Tammany Hall was secretly informed and objected. The supervisor took Harry off the case and suppressed the evidence. Outraged, he protested publicly. His superiors then charged him with fabricating the evidence and trying to extort money from Tammany's lawyer. Harry was wrongly convicted and sentenced to four years in Sing Sing. His wife left him, taking their two children with her.”

Pamela remarked, “Having known bitterness and self-pity, I'm beginning to understand Harry. But I wouldn't compare my Lower East Side boardinghouse with his Sing Sing.”

Prescott nodded sympathetically. “Bad as it was, Harry made the most of his prison time, studying the mentality of criminals, their characteristic behavior and their skills and techniques. Still, he came out of Sing Sing impoverished and disgraced. No one would hire him. He seriously considered entering a life of crime, where he probably would have excelled.”

“So, is that when you stepped in?”

“Actually, a year earlier. I had followed his case from a distance and smelled the rank odor of injustice. Shortly after his release, I contacted him and researched his background. I discovered a bulldog's tenacity in pursuit of evidence as well as remarkable investigative skills. He knows the criminal mind so well that he can often anticipate a criminal's next move. He also can open any lock ever made by God or man. I hired Harry on probation, and he has proved invaluable.”

Pamela remarked, “You've given me a new appreciation of the man. I see why he would distrust almost everyone, including me. I hope to change his attitude.”

 

Despite an awkward beginning, Pamela gamely prepared for training with Miller. She didn't expect it to be easy. Miller disliked and distrusted her. Still, she remained confident since Prescott thought she could cope and would benefit.

They began in Harry's office, a small room with a few wooden chairs and cabinets. A battered table stood against a wall. A large map of the city hung nearby. Otherwise, the walls were bare. Pamela wondered if the office differed much from his prison cell, besides being a little larger. For a week, she sat at the table with Miller at her side and studied the handbook. Finally, he declared it was time for practical exercises at Macy's.

As they explored the vast store, he pointed to its open counters and displays, luring the crowd, mostly females, to buy—or to steal.

“Preventing thievery here must be a nightmare,” he said, as they stood on a stairway and surveyed the scene before them.

Pamela added, “The clerks have an impossible task, standing behind counters, needing to be alert for eight or nine hours. To judge from their speech, dress, and manners, most of them are poorly paid young women with little education.”

Miller nodded. “Floorwalkers are supposed to enforce strict rules of dress and behavior on the clerks and keep a sharp eye on the customers. But a floorwalker can't be everywhere at once, and some of them are lazy, stupid, or drunk—or all three. Both clerks and customers find ways to steal. You're learning how to stop them. Now we'll sharpen your powers of observation.”

He sent her into the jewelry department for five minutes. When she returned, he asked her to describe specific items that were displayed on a certain counter. Then he had the sales clerks rearrange the items, put a few away, and display a few new ones. Pamela went back into the department for five more minutes. Miller questioned her again to see if she had noticed the changes. In a similar way, she studied visitors to the jewelry department, their mannerisms as well as their physical appearance.

At the end of the day, Miller said, “You've observed well.” She thanked him for the compliment but also gave credit to her experience managing the boardinghouse.

During the following days, her instruction focused on shoplifters, especially the upper-class ladies who came a-thieving to department stores, including Macy's. She caught a few of the middling variety stealing inexpensive jewelry and took them to the store's chief detective. He recovered the items and sent the ladies home with the threat that they would go to jail the next time.

Miller asked Pamela, “Why do you think they steal, though they have enough money to purchase whatever they want?”

Pamela replied, “I've known that sort of woman. A few of them are probably mentally ill. An inner, irresistible force compels them to steal. But most are simply bored to tears. Stealing at Macy's adds adventure and thrill to their barren lives.”

“I agree,” he remarked dryly. “They are pitiful creatures.”

One day, Miller called her to his office. “Prescott says you should also be trained in self-defense, including the use of firearms.” Like Prescott, Miller kept weapons in his office in a locked cabinet. When he handed her a Colt .44 revolver, she wrinkled her nose in distaste.

He corrected her sharply. “You most likely will never have reason to fire a pistol, but you need to know how one works. Your life or someone else's just might depend on it.” He took her uptown to a gun shop's indoor practice range and instructed her in the safe handling of pistols. He warned her, “When you practice indoors, stuff wax into your ears. The noise is deafening.”

She had good eyesight and a steady hand. So, despite her reluctance, she managed to hit the bull's-eye often enough to win a grudging smile from her instructor.

 

On 18 April, the final day of her training, Miller called Pamela to his office. “You may need to defend yourself when you don't have a pistol. That's most of the time. Don't expect to carry one in Macy's. Use your wits instead. Whenever you can, avoid dangerous situations.”

She raised an eyebrow. “That should be easy in Macy's jewelry department, don't you think?” His stress on the obvious had irritated her. Did he think she was simple?

Her pert tone annoyed Miller. “True,” he replied. “Some places are safer than others, but no place is entirely safe. At Macy's you will be protecting items worth hundreds of dollars. That could be dangerous work. Some thieves would kill for a tiny, exquisite diamond. You've already pointed out that some of the women who steal from Macy's are mentally or emotionally unbalanced. Faced with the prospect of arrest, any one of them—a rich socialite or a poor clerk—could react violently and attack you with a long, steel hatpin.”

“I agree,” admitted Pamela, grudgingly contrite.

Miller continued. “In the future the two of us might have to work together. I want a partner whom I can depend on.” He stared at her with grave doubt in his eyes. “A society lady would faint at the first whiff of danger and be worse than useless.”

“Sir!” Pamela exclaimed. “I may speak correct English, but I'm not one of your ‘society ladies.' Nor do I faint in the face of danger. Less than a month ago, I fought off a fierce assailant. He fled, screaming.”

Miller sniffed. “I'll see for myself how brave you are.” He beckoned her to face him in the center of the room. Following his instructions, she was wearing an old, patched dress. “Ready?” he asked. She nodded, without knowing what he intended to do.

Suddenly, his bluish gray eyes filled with menace. He drew a knife from his coat pocket and lunged at her. For a moment she felt that he truly intended to kill her. She grabbed his upraised arm and tried to hold him off. With superior strength, he easily pressed the weapon to within an inch of her throat. A powerful fear surged through her body. But she knew that he wouldn't kill her, so she steeled her nerves and didn't flinch.

“You see,” he said as he released his pressure. “A male assailant would almost always have superior strength, and you would lose the contest.” He backed away and said, “A female assailant might be no stronger than you, but she would still have the advantage of surprise. Here's a trick that might work initially. If you can, grab your assailant's thumb.” He raised the knife and attacked again, this time grinning like a crazed demon.

With a rush of anger that banished her fear, she seized his thumb and pressed back hard.

He flinched with pain. “I see that you get the idea.” He put the knife back into his pocket. “You may also try to poke out the assailant's eyes, strike his Adam's apple, and knee him in the groin. These are desperate measures. I'm not going to let you try them on me. But use them if you have to. You've got nothing to lose but your life.”

“Have you ever had to use any of these measures?”

His expression grew grim, as if he were under pressure from painful past images. “Do you really want to know?”

She nodded. “Since we might become partners, I'd like to know more about you—as much as you care to tell me.”

“As a young patrolman in Five Corners, and a small man, I was frequently in danger of assault. But I had a stout partner, and together we defended ourselves well. In prison I had no trustworthy partner, and the guards were corrupt. It was every man for himself, and the bullies ruled. Worse yet, Tammany hired prisoners to try to kill me.”

“How did you survive?”

“I learned to negotiate with other, less dangerous prisoners for mutual protection. We exchanged favors. I taught them to read and write. They identified my enemies, and I tried to avoid them. That wasn't always possible, so I used every trick I've showed you. But they didn't always work. I have scars to prove it. Here's one.” He unbuttoned his right sleeve and showed her an ugly scar from elbow to wrist. “I nearly bled to death.”

For a moment, Pamela had second thoughts about the career she was entering.

Miller must have sensed her anxiety. “Don't be frightened. Prescott will never put you in Five Corners or Sing Sing. I'm confident you can cope with shoplifters in Macy's.”

Shortly after this session, Prescott called Pamela into his private office and offered her a chair facing him. He leaned forward, his arms resting on the desk, his expression professional. “Harry Miller has just reported favorably on your performance, madam. I'm impressed, especially since he's so hard to please. I was already aware of your good judgment, sophistication, and tact. Miller tells me that you also have courage and strong nerves.”